“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain”
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Hazy memories of the past grips on to Lucifer, drowning him until a familiar demon pulls him out from the past he yearned.
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Lucifer leans on the balcony outside of the hazbin hotel, cigarette in hand. He takes an inhale of the cigar and breathes it out as his addled mind pulls him in to the long forgotten past towards a human man. This man stands before the night sky, his voice distinct yet the words are muffled and incoherent for him to understand anything of what he was saying.
His memory moves on, and he can only remember the beautiful night sky filled with colors and bright lights—fireworks. He remembers the human saying they were fireworks once.
He remembers the awe he felt when these fireworks appeared, “woah… It’s.. so pretty..” he recalls muttering, his gaze fixed on the brilliant lights and colors painting the clear night sky.
“Lucifer.”
His name was barely audible, muffled in the air (and there’s something like a lingering faint static), but the voice—rich, pleasant, familiar—carries a strong transatlantic accent.
“Lucifer.”
This one is clearer this time—more static and filters, but still oh-so familiar.
Lucifer opens his eyes and the hazy visions of the past mix with the present as the tobacco in his system momentarily make him see the human he met decades—or a century and a half ago now (has it been that long?). But within that haze, there remains a faint vision of red in that haze of the human— a familiar red.
His eyes finally clear, and there Alastor stands in front of him—his smile muted and brows furrowed ever so slightly. It almost looks like an expression of concern toward him.
(But he knows Alastor is one of the last demons who would ever show such an expression—especially toward him)
“Al..?” He finally mutters as he feels himself sober up a bit.
Beginning||Part 2||Part 3||Part 4||Part 5||Part 6||•Part 7•
